Just wrote this piece. I love experimenting with prose/poetry ideas. I was thinking about how I comb my hair and whether the experience has meaning. I believe with a few edits I could mold this into something interesting.


Coils, curls, swirls and twists wrap around my colored girl’s comb.
Unraveling spirals move through years of teeth.
Combs carry stories of untamed hair.
I am not without remembering.
My comb whispers secrets to my locs
that my soul doesn’t want to know.
Tresses fold tight, frozen by time.
Maybe by fear.
My colored girl’s comb,
it molds to my colored girl hair.
I mold to my colored girl comb.

© zaji, 2016